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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1893752-The-Old-Man
by Aelyah
Rated: E · Short Story · Writing · #1893752
He took the bus, every day at the same hour...
His hair was white and rich, streaming down his shoulder and his eyes were blue and maybe a bit cloudy. His real age was a mystery for the travelers on the bus as he stood tall and exuded the confidence of the youth.

He took the bus every morning at the same time and searched for a place at the end of the car. Every time, he sat down, rested his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

What the travelers on the bus didn't know was that he listened.  As the bus rolled, the noise of the city grew, and he could hear the clatter of everyday life closer and closer.

With every stop voices and shouts of encouragement became louder and clearer.  When he heard the deafening collective sound congratulating the victor, he rose and headed to the exit door of the bus.

As it did every day, the door opened, and he stepped into the light.

The road separating him from the arena was dirty and filled with pedestrians and horse driven carts. He waited for the right moment and crossed to the entry of the large circular building. Made of stone, the arena stood tall and intimidating.

He had been here too many times to count, and he knew the ritual. He stopped by the strongroom and took a large pouch of coins. He asked for a copy of his list of achievements from the office in the front.

His heart beat faster as he approached the game office. Would it be today that nobody challenged him, so he can finally issue the provocation to the Emperor himself?

He stopped outside the door and peered at the bloodied man inside. Massive, with two large horns on the sides of his skull and clad in a green, shimmering kilt, he had an animated discussion with the chief of the game office.

"We cannot declare you the supreme champion yet." the chief advised the minotaur and then sighed with relief at the sight of the white-haired man.

He turned and told him.
"You have a challenger, Drys".

Drys sighed with disappointment and nodded.
"I accept the challenge; give me one hour to get ready."

The kilt-clad minotaur looked at him with contempt and left the room with no more acknowledgment.

Drys followed, and went deep into the city. The intoxicating noise of the arena pursued him on the narrow roads to the gray cube where he kept his armors.

He climbed the ladder, entered the only room of the house and locked the door after him. The light filtered through the narrow window and reflected with a dull shine on the metal armors. Drys looked at the dents and scratches and sighed.

"It will have to do." he muttered.

He stuffed the armors in a large sack and lifted the sword lying on the floor. It sparkled mischievously in the light with almost a wink.

Drys balanced the sword and smiled. There was an old friend, whom he trusted with his life. He pulled the sack on his shoulders and locked the door as he exited.

He signaled at one of the young boys who loitered near the arena in search for a job, and asked for help to don his armors. Although dented, the kingfisher, the crown and the sword were still visible on the front of his armor.

The boy looked reverently from the armor to his white hair and lowered his eyes when he met Drys' cloudy-blue stare.

A smile crept of Drys' face as he remembered another day, long ago when he looked with the same reverence to another knight. He hoped, just like him that today he would challenge the Emperor. Drys' hair was black then, like the raven's feathers; his pockets empty, and hunger rumbled in his stomach.

He headed to the arena and motioned at the youth to follow. He knew how to make an entrance and the spectators greeted him with a deafening shout, rising from their seats.

The minotaur bristled on the other side and grazed at the ground with his left hoof in threat.

He launched at Drys; however, he was ready and his shield withstood one more minotaur attack.

He raised his sword, and his opponent parried with a jarring strike.

They circled each other and entered a known rhythm of strike-parry as they learned each other's strengths and weaknesses.

The minotaur lounged, hit his shield, and Drys stumbled. He refused to believe this was the end, and he would be defeated after so many victories.

He attacked his opponent, but he ducked and hit Drys' helmet with the horn. Drys' vision blurred, and nausea threatened to overcome him. The minotaur has no armors, a small voice told him.

So he lounged to the blurry brown shadow in front of him, and swung his sword with the last of his strength. The horn of the minotaur met again with his helmet, and the world went dark.

He felt, later, a small hand tugging at his shoulder.

"Sir, wake up, you won; the minotaur is dead."

Drys sighed and let the darkness claim him again. He was not to have peace, as the hand shook him anew.

"Sir, wake up. Mr. Dryson, please wake up. Should I call an ambulance?"

Another voice answered.
"He's breathing; his pulse is on the weak side, but he'll be ok. Keep trying, lad."

The hand jarred him harder this time and his eyes sprung open. Startled, the youth began to mumble an apology.

"It's ok, son; I must have fallen asleep."

He looked at the bus as it approached the station and smiled.

"Here is my bus, I am most grateful for waking me up in time."

He climbed onto the bus, took his place at the end of the car and rested his head back.

He stared at the ceiling with his slightly cloudy blue eyes and sighed with relief. He won another challenge and lived another day.

© Copyright 2012 Aelyah (aelyah at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1893752-The-Old-Man